


In The Beginning

by AbegaylTanner



Series: BBC Sherlock in totally4ryo's Carrier 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU - totally4ryo's Carrier 'verse, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, bits of TGG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbegaylTanner/pseuds/AbegaylTanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has only allowed himself to feel sentiment for two people outside his immediate family. Both have wound up dead. When he meets John Watson, he swears he won't allow the mistake to happen again, but it's as inevitable as 'not gay' John Watson falling in love with him in return is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [totally4ryo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/totally4ryo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Upside Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098435) by [totally4ryo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/totally4ryo/pseuds/totally4ryo). 



> Un-beta'd.  
> Not Brit-picked.  
> First in a series.
> 
> I **highly** recommend you go on over to totally4ryo and read her Carrier 'verse series "The Unexpected" (FAKE) before reading this as it will help you understand the Carrier 'verse better as I haven't really gone into any detail with this first fic and it will be a while before the next in the series is ready to be uploaded.

It started with Carl Powers when he was fifteen. They’d just started going out and Sherlock had gone to watch him in the first swim meet of the year when it happened. Sherlock knew it wasn’t an accident. He knew someone had killed Carl. He just couldn’t figure out why or get anyone to listen to ‘a kid’. It infuriated him.

Sherlock didn’t feel for anyone again until he was twenty-three. His name was Victor Trevor and they had _Philosophy and Science_ together. Victor was brilliant. Not as smart as Sherlock, but far above average all the same. They’d talk for hours about anything and everything and Sherlock fell fast. Two months after they’d started dating Victor was found dead in an alley. The police called it a mugging gone wrong. Sherlock knew better.

He turned to drugs after that. For five years cocaine ruled his life. He though he had it under control, that he knew precisely how much to administer, but he hadn’t taken into consideration his transports need to increase his intake. Two overdoses and a close call with deaths door later found him in a private hospital room. He woke to a salt-and-pepper haired, brown-eyed face staring down at him with concern.

Voices were raised, a deal was struck, and Sherlock entered rehab voluntarily for the first time. Rehab drove Sherlock insane, but for every week he stayed and remained clean, Lestrade provided him with a cold case file. They rarely took more than a day for him to solve, but it was motivation to keep going. Mycroft was impressed, but it didn’t stop him from kidnapping the Sergeant that had saved his baby brother.

It was four years after his stint in rehab that Sherlock met John Watson. The man was an anomaly, selcouth. Everything about him was a puzzle that Sherlock longed to solve but appreciated that he couldn’t. John quickly became Sherlock’s everything, though you wouldn’t know it for the way he acted. 

Someone had picked up on his growing feelings for his flat mate and it caused a world of chaos. There were five pips, a Carrier strapped to a bomb and twelve hours to solve a puzzle. He manages to solve it with three hours to spare. A short while later there are four pips and another Carrier strapped to a bomb. He’s given eight hours to solve this puzzle. Once again he solves it with three hours to spare.

Three pips this time. Another Carrier strapped to a bomb. Sherlock doesn’t let on that this is making him nervous. John is a Carrier. It’s in his military records. He was tested when he joined. Twelve hours to solve the death of Connie Prince. It’s alarmingly simple, but Sherlock draws it out, trying to trace every lead he can back to this person tormenting him. He posts his answer to his blog with one hours to spare. The Carrier makes a mistake, starts to describe the man’s voice. Sherlock tries to stop him, warn him, but he can’t get the hysterical man to cease his rambling. The line goes dead. It’s reported as a gas leak.

Two pips and a young Carrier, recently tested, no more than thirteen. Sherlock is terrified, though he doesn’t show it. He solves the case with mere seconds to spare, saving the boy’s life. He feels a rush of relief, but the argument that follows with John is unacceptable. He wants to finish this fast so as soon as John leaves the flat he’s on his blog and requesting a meeting with this mystery man. 

He’s not expecting John to be there. His heart seems to stop when the bomb is revealed. It starts up again, pace increasing by the second, as Moriarty reveals himself and starts to taunt him.

“We’d be so good together,” Moriarty says.

“What makes you think I want anything to do with you,” Sherlock snarls, John’s gun aimed directly at Moriarty’s chest.

“Simple. I’ve gotten rid of everyone else that has foolishly thought they were worthy of you. I’m the only one worthy. I’m like you, Sherlock. We’re perfect for each other. Let’s just deal with this little problem,” he gestures at John with a grimace, “and we can finally be happy, together.”

Sherlock stares at him with a blank face. This man was obviously insane. There could never be anyone for Sherlock but John. John was everything. 

John moves fast, his arms around Moriarty in the blink of an eye. “Go, Sherlock. Run.”

Sherlock’s shocked frozen. He stares at John over Moriarty’s shoulder. The man gives a bark of crazed laughter. “Rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

There’s a red dot, the sight of a sniper, then more than one. John releases Moriarty, his eyes widened in fear. He’s not sure they’ll make it out this time. Then Moriarty leaves and Sherlock is removing the vest and John is sinking to his knees. He allows himself to breathe, but Moriarty is back.

“I’m so changeable,” he sing-songs and Sherlock has John’s gun raised and pointed at Moriarty once more, only this time he allows it to drop to the vest. John gives a subtle nod and Sherlock is pulling the trigger as John rushes him and there’s an explosion and water and fire and he _can’t breathe_ , but Sherlock is there with him and he thinks it’s all going to be ok. But Sherlock’s eyes are closed, not closed as though to keep the water out, but closed as though he’s unconscious and John is kicking with his feet, his arms wrapped tight around Sherlock’s chest as he struggles to get them both to the surface. 

He’s coughing, spluttering, as he pulls Sherlock to the side of the pool, doing his best to avoid the rubble around them. Lestrade bursts through a side door followed closely by Donovan and several others on his team. They help pull John and Sherlock from the pool. Sherlock is strapped to a gurney, loaded into an ambulance. The paramedic tries to push John out of the way but he growls and curses at the man until Lestrade insists he be allowed to ride with the unconscious detective. Sherlock is resuscitated in route, but he doesn’t regain consciousness.

Mycroft meets them at the private hospital, holds John back as Sherlock is rushed into A&E. They sit together in the waiting room, neither saying a word as they wait for news of Sherlock’s condition. After what seems an eternity to John a doctor finally enters and moves towards Mycroft. John stands with him and the doctor cuts him eyes until a subtle nod from Mycroft clears him. She looks between the two for a moment before turning her eyes back to the clipboard in her hands.

“Mr. Holmes, your brother is doing fine. He’s resting now, but he’s suffered a concussion and there are seven stitches to a gash at the back of his head.” 

Mycroft nods, but John won’t be satisfied until he’s got eyes on. “Can I see him?” He asks and the doctor cuts him eyes once more, but a sharp look from Mycroft has her acquiescing and she directs John to Sherlock’s room.

The yellowish light lends a sickly color to Sherlock’s normally pale pallor and John wants nothing more than to take him out of this place, ensconce them both in 221 and nurse his best friend back to health in their home, their haven. He picks up the lone chair in the corner of the room and carries it silently as he can across to where Sherlock lay breathing deeply. He places the chair as close as he dares to Sherlock’s bed and takes a seat in it, his hand automatically reaching to grip Sherlock’s limp fingers. He stares at his best friend, willing him to open his eyes of his own accord. When it finally happens, John drags in a deep breath, the noise alerting Sherlock to his presence, not that the fact he hadn’t released his hand wouldn’t have.

Sherlock’s lips quirk at one corner and his eyes soften immediately when he sees who is there beside him. “John,” he croaks and John reaches immediately for the pitcher of water that’s on the bedside table. He fills a cup and sets a straw in it before holding it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock takes a sip and casts a grateful glance in John’s direction, his fingers tightening momentarily on the hand that still hasn’t released his. “Moriarty?” he asks and John shakes his head. 

He hadn’t taken the time to find out if Moriarty lived or not, had been more focused on not losing Sherlock to worry too much about the psychopath. Now that Sherlock was here, alive, breathing on his own, awake, he considered the ramifications of Moriarty surviving the explosion. He’d come after them, of course. He wanted Sherlock, had made that clear, but he couldn’t have him.

A hiss of pain brought John out of his reverie and he immediately loosened his grip. He flashed Sherlock an apologetic smile before turning towards the door as footsteps came to a halt just on the other side. Mycroft knocked once before pushing the door open and stepping into the room. His eyes landed on their joined hands but neither showed nor said anything about it, just took it in a moment before bringing them up to rest on his baby brother.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, releasing John’s hand to cross his arms over his chest petulantly before dropping them and grabbing up John’s hand again. “When can I go home?”

Mycroft looks between the two, nods once and turns to go back out the door. He pauses for a moment, turns to look over his shoulder at the two men, “I’ll see what I can do,” and is gone. Sherlock is released seven hours later only because he’s deduced the majority of the staff to tears and John finally takes pity on the few that haven’t yet been doomed to tending to the temporarily bedridden detective.

The journey back to 221 is taken in silence, Sherlock wrapped in scrubs and his Belstaff since they’d cut his clothes from his body. He’d complained, of course. _I don’t see why they couldn’t have just taken them off_. John ushered him up the stairs to their flat and pushed him gently onto the couch. He moved into the kitchen and set about making tea for the both of them.

They sit side-by-side on the couch, each sipping their respective cuppa as the telly plays on mute. John lets his head fall to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder and the taller man shifts just a bit to allow more comfort. Neither say a word, just sit there staring blankly at the telly. Eventually Sherlock lets loose a yawn and John stands to bring their now empty cups to the sink. He rinses them and returns to pull Sherlock up from the couch and direct him into his bedroom.

“Stay,” Sherlock mumbles, grasping onto the sleeve of John’s jumper as he goes to leave.

John doesn’t reply but strips himself of his jumper and jeans. He lays next to Sherlock in his pants and undershirt, the quilt tossed over him and Sherlock pressed to his side, shoulder-to-shoulder. They lay in silence, both staring at the ceiling and considering their lives from their own perspective. John’s come to the realization that he cannot risk losing Sherlock. Sherlock lets his hand shift across the small space between them until his fingers brush John’s. John grabs his hand without a second thought, twining their fingers together in a tight grip.

Sherlock turns his head slightly, his eyes boring into the side of John’s. John ignores it for a moment before turning to return the intense stare. Sherlock moves first, inching towards John, waiting to see if he’ll be rejected. He’s moved most of the way between them when John finally inches towards him in return. Their lips meet briefly, a flutter of a touch, before connecting again, more firmly. Sherlock lets out a stifled whimper, turning his body to wrap his free arm around John’s torso. John turns into the touch, his free hand moving up to curl into Sherlock’s hair. The kiss blossoms, turning from gentle exploration to passionate inferno.

“John,” Sherlock breaths as their mouths break apart to take in oxygen and then their together again, lips moving in perfect synch as they pull each other closer, grip each other tighter. Sherlock rotates his hips, pushing his growing erection into John’s thigh. He pulls away enough to readjust before pulling John back into him, their erections pressing against each other now.

Both men release rough moans, their lips breaking apart a moment before crashing back together, teeth nipping, mouths sucking. It’s intense, more so than either of them had ever experienced with previous partners. Sherlock rolls to his back, pulling John on top of himself and John groans as he presses his hips down into Sherlock’s. Sherlock whimpers, pushing back into John as his hands release their grip and travel down John’s back to his arse. He squeezes a handful before using them to pull John more firmly into him. 

“Please,” John whispers and Sherlock opens his eyes, looks straight into John’s with such a fiery passion that John loses what little breath he’s retained thus far. Sherlock nods once and their back to kissing, ripping at each other’s clothes. Sherlock throws his hand to the side, fingers connecting with the bedside table and feeling around for the handle of the drawer. John pulls back, leans away so he can pull both their pants off as Sherlock sits up and pulls off his shirt before grabbing the near full bottle of lube. John pulls his own shirt off and they come back together, their passion not diminished in the least. 

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock breathes and John shudders.

“God, yes,” he groans and leans back on his heels so he can begin to prepare Sherlock.

He moves through it swiftly, both too far gone to want to waste too much time, but he doesn’t want to hurt Sherlock so he makes sure it’s thorough, if not slow. There’s no condom, but Sherlock insists and John pushes in, stilling when the head of his cock passes that first ring of muscle. Sherlock lets out a hiss at the sharp pain and they both still to allow his body to adjust to the intrusion. Its slow going until John is fully seated, balls pressed to the plush, round globes of Sherlock’s arse. They pause once more until the pained crease of Sherlock’s brow is gone and his hips shift, pushing John further into him.

Sherlock lets out a little whine when John doesn’t immediately begin to pull back. He opens his eyes to see John already staring at him with deep affection. Love, he thinks and he can’t stop it when his final barriers crumble and everything he’s kept hidden flows to the surface. A flicker of surprise passes over John’s features before they settle and reveal even more. John had been holding back and Sherlock lets out a soft chuckle.

John begins to move then and Sherlock gasps, his back arching as John unerringly brushes his prostate on the inward stroke. It’s slow at first, but soon enough Sherlock is urging John to move _harder, faster, please, John, God, John, yes_. It’s fire flowing through their veins, lava hot and true as they come together again and again, their bodies pushing and pulling in synch, a perfect harmony as their smother each other’s cries with their mouths.

Sherlock jerks his head back, his body arching and stiffening as he reaches his peak. “John,” he bellows out and John can’t even care that he’s being so loud because Sherlock’s arse contracting around his cock sets off his own orgasm and his hips stutter and jerk as he gasps and shouts out Sherlock’s name before collapsing on top of the other man. They’re breathing harshly, clinging tightly to each other as John slowly softens and slides out of Sherlock.

They hold each other for a while longer before John trusts his legs to hold him up long enough to move to the bathroom and collect a warm, damp flannel. He returns and cleans Sherlock up before cleaning himself and tossing the flannel into the hamper Sherlock keeps in the corner. He climbs back into bed and Sherlock immediately wraps himself around him.

“I love you,” John whispers into his hair, his eyes drifting shut. The last thing he hears before the darkness consumes him is Sherlock’s whispered _I love you, too_.


End file.
